Scarcely a street, too few houses <br />To merit the title; just a way between <br />The one tavern and the one shop <br />That leads nowhere and fails at the top <br />Of the short hill, eaten away <br />By long erosion of the green tide <br />Of grass creeping perpetually nearer <br />This last outpost of time past. <br /> <br />So little happens; the black dog <br />Cracking his fleas in the hot sun <br />Is history. Yet the girl who crosses <br />From door to door moves to a scale <br />Beyond the bland day's two dimensions. <br /> <br />Stay, then, village, for round you spins <br />On a slow axis a world as vast <br />And meaningful as any posed <br />By great Plato's solitary mind. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Andrew Mayers<br /><br />Ronald Stuart Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-village/
